by Lisa Sorbe
I can’t tell who it is, but as hands reach up and grab my shoulders, steadying me, I recognize the voice. Deep and dense, like it’s weighted down with everything he doesn’t say, Ben’s words fill my ears.
“I’ll speak.”
Per usual, it’s not much. But the offer gets me out of the spotlight, and because of this, I could kiss him. You know, metaphorically speaking, of course. Though, just the thought alone is enough to have me wondering how his strong jaw would feel pressed against my mouth, wonder how the rough stubble of his burgeoning beard would feel against my lips.
For some reason, I don’t think it’d be unpleasant.
But all of those musings are a moot point, because obviously I’m never going to find out. Because obviously I don’t really want to kiss him…the man whose gloved hands are currently pressing heat into my body, warming me in ways a coat never could.
Ben moves to make his way up front; his hands leave my shoulders, the wind takes his place at my back, and without his looming presence protecting me from the elements, the bitter chill slams back into me so hard I gasp.
Although there’s no possible way he could have heard me over nature’s cacophony, it’s almost as if he did, because he stops mid-step and pauses. Then, turning slowly, he considers me. His breath escapes in softs plumes, meshing with mine as, for a moment, we just stare at each other. And even though his brows are still drawn in that moody way I’ve become way too familiar with in the five hours I’ve known him, for the first time I see a softness beneath that steel. Warmth beneath that cold, foreboding exterior. It’s right there, under that brooding forehead—a subtle flash of empathy widening his eyes. It doesn’t last long, though, and if he didn’t do what he did next, I’d be telling myself it was all in my imagination.
Ben reaches up, shrugs out of his coat and, with a twist of his wrists, flings it over my shoulders like a cape.
He does this without smiling, without a word, and his eyes never leave mine, as if the wind, in all of its ferocity, has stolen our breath and all we can do is stare. The only way we can communicate is through a look.
My lips are numb, my whole face is numb, and all I can do is sort of work my jaw stiffly as I stare, dumbfounded, back at him. Turns out it doesn’t matter, because within seconds, a shadow falls over his eyes. Ripping his gaze from mine, he turns on his heel, shoulders bent against the cold, and stomps his way to the boulder.
And the thank you that I meant to say, that I wanted to say, stays frozen in my throat.
Right beneath the bated breath I’m holding as I wait for him to speak.
I’m positively on pins and needles waiting to hear what Ben has to say, hoping it gives me some insight into his relationship with Lenora. Insight he seemed reluctant to get into on the drive up here.
Ben dips his chin, rests a hand on the boulder, and takes a breath. His silence is loud, so much louder than the wind and the waves and the rocks sliding into one another as they shift beneath our feet. In fact, even his presence is loud, and before long the funeral-goers mimic him, their heads bowed, their breaths puffing toward the earth. And then, after what feels like forever, Ben lifts his head, pulls a flask from the pocket of his flannel jacket, and unscrews the lid.
I stare, wide-eyed, as those around me—if not damn near everyone, then close to it—does the same.
“To Lenora Vane,” he says simply, somberly, lifting the flask in the air. His eyes find mine as he brings it to his mouth.
There’s a brief murmur of assent throughout the crowd as they follow suit.
And then, just like that, the funeral is over.
The attorney’s office is small and not at all quaint, just a boxy room with green shag carpet and cream-colored walls that, after seeing the stash of stubbed-out cigarettes in the ash tray on his desk, I can only assume were once white. Banker boxes stacked four high and two deep take up one corner of the room, their lids askew and overflowing with brown accordion folders and manila envelopes. A dusty deer’s head leers morbidly from the wall behind the desk, its antlers pressing into the yellowing ceiling tiles.
It’s depressing, seeing a such a beautiful, stoic animal in a place like this. Even if it is dead. I tear my eyes away from its glassy stare and close them instead, wishing all of this was over and I was on my way back to LA. Where my life is. Where Daniel is. Where my future is.
Where it’s tropical and warm and the air doesn’t hurt to breathe.
I’m still wearing Ben’s coat, and even though he’s sitting next to me, I’m reluctant to offer it back to him. This office is little more than the size of a single wide trailer, and the insulation lining the shack’s frame is less than desirable. I’m freezing and can’t seem to warm up no matter how much I try and burrow myself into the coat’s thick lining. Or maybe it’s that I’m just so frozen from the funeral that I can’t thaw out. Ben’s coat is warm, but this delicious scent of spicy peppermint and sweet pine is all over it, and the smell is doing something weird to my brain. It’s like my body’s wires are all crossed.
So maybe not every chill coursing through me is due to the cold.
I discreetly take in another deep breath, trying to draw in as much of this heady aroma as I can.
Ben slices a look my way, raises his brows.
Okay. Not so discreet after all.
“You know,” I say, popping my head out of the coat’s collar like a turtle, “you don’t have to stay. I can take an Uber back to Lenora’s after this.”
“Uber?” He cocks his head and regards me like I just told a joke. One he didn’t get the punchline to.
It takes everything in me to not roll my eyes. To not talk down to this (forgive me) small town hick who is probably so out of touch with what’s going on in today’s world that he has no idea what an Uber even is.
“It’s like a taxi,” I say slowly. “You know, a cab.”
He stares at me like I’m an idiot, so I continue to ramble on like one. “It’s so easy. I have an app on my phone, and all I have to do is pretty much press a button and—voilà! A driver will be here,” I snap my fingers, “like that.”
Ben’s lips twist into a knowing grin. “Oh, I see,” he says, giving me a little nod. “Yeah, well. Good luck with that.”
I frown at his response. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was mocking me. But before I can ask him what the hell he meant, the attorney, Roman Lindusky, blows into his office, bringing with him the wind it seems I can’t escape from…even when I’m indoors.
“Sorry to keep you two waiting.” He’s a large man, tall with wide shoulders and a round belly that’s prominent even through his puffy ski jacket. Blowing on his hands, he takes a seat behind his desk, not bothering to remove his coat. His white hair matches his white beard, and if it wasn’t for his tobacco stained fingers, he’d be a dead ringer for Santa Claus.
Ben waves a hand and offers up the first real smile I’ve seen on him. “Not a problem, Ro.”
“Had to get the groceries in and make sure the genie had a full tank. They say we’re gonna get hit with a whopper of a blizzard sometime tonight. Supposed to get close to a foot, ‘cording to Chevy down at Jasper’s.” The man actually laughs, like the idea of being snowed-in in the middle of nowhere is positively delightful. The pink in his cheeks turns to red as he slaps his thigh. “Finally get to try out the new Cat.”
I have no idea what a cat is, but Ben does because the smile he’s still wearing perks up a bit. “Lucky bastard,” he says. “I’m still riding my old Polaris from college.”
Roman looks at him meaningfully. “Well, my boy. I don’t see any reason you can’t indulge after this.” He slides his hands along a manila envelope resting on the desk in front of him, and the light in his eyes fades a bit. “Just wish it wasn’t like this.”
Both men bow their heads, and they might as well be speaking a foreign language for all the good it does me.
Cat? Polaris? Indulge after this?
Ben shifts in his seat. �
�What Nora and I had planned is enough of an indulgence for me. It’s what we both wanted.”
Nora?
I feel like there’s a lump in my stomach, hot and heavy, that’s growing larger by the minute.
Roman Lindusky nods. “I understand. And it’s a damn fine thing, what you’re doing.” Then, turning to me, he smiles, though it dips a notch when he sees the expression on my face. I’m sure I look shell-shocked, though it’s not for the reason he thinks. “My dear,” he says, his voice low. “I’m so sorry for your loss. All of us up here at Lost Bay, well, we just adored Nora. And her passing’s been a tough pill for us to swallow. But you being her actual flesh and blood and all…” He shakes his head and covers up the thickness coating his words with a cough.
Are those tears? Are his eyes glistening?
“She sure talked a lot about you,” he says, recovering. “Loved those video thingies you put out each week on the ew tube. Said you were a star out there in California.”
Ben clears his throat. “It’s called YouTube, Ro. And what Lenora here does is vlog.” He turns, pinning me with a stare, and his face is deadpan as he says, “About hair.”
My jaw drops, though I quickly catch it. Then, as if to counter that act of weakness, I lift it high. “I actually discuss more than just hair on my channel.” Though, to be honest, not much. While the bulk of my content focuses on caring for curly and wavy hair, I do my best to keep it from being too superficial and try to inject other topics into my discussions. But in the four years I’ve had my platform, the vids in which I discuss hair products and post reviews remain the most popular among my followers. Hence, it’s what I produce.
You know what they say. Give the people what they want, right?
Ben holds up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. My bad.” He turns to Roman and cocks a thumb at me. “California here also talks about make-up and clothes.” Shooting me a smirk, he says, “I believe swimming suits are a favorite of yours, am I right?”
I don’t even know how to respond. This man is an asshole. And he’s just…he’s totally missing the point. Of course, I deal with a-holes all the time. I do, after all, live in Los Angeles where people have no qualms about crushing you on their rise to the top. But getting it from Ben? A guy I just met and have done nothing—absolutely nothing—to offend? And in an intimate setting like this? Berating me in such a brutal way, with Roman looking on so uncomfortably? And to top it off, just following my grandmother’s freaking funeral?
No. Oh, hell no.
“For your information,” I seethe, not even sure why I’m humoring this jerk, “I have over a hundred and seventy thousand subscribers who happen to love what I have to say.” Indignation has lit a spark somewhere in my chest, and its flames are fanning out, lighting me up. I’m positively burning from it. Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I’m suddenly warmer than I’ve been since landing in this stupid, godforsaken state.
Ben feigns admiration. “A hundred and seventy thousand, you say? Wow.” He rubs a hand over his chin and scoffs. “And people wonder why the world’s going to shit.”
Roman looks less like Santa Claus now and more like the captain of a sinking ship who just realized how fast the storm snuck up on him. He chuckles awkwardly. “Well now, you two. Let’s, uh…let’s get on with things, shall we?”
I cast a scowl Ben’s way. “Yes, that’d be fabulous.”
“Yeah,” Ben says, mirroring my expression. “Let’s do it.”
Roman sighs like a weary grandfather who just convinced his grandkids to share the last cookie in the cookie jar. Sliding on a pair of wireframed glasses, he thumbs open the envelope and regards us over the top of his lenses. “Now,” he says, “I’ve already gone through this with Benjamin. And since he was with Lenora when she made the changes, he’s already aware of everything I’m about to say.”
“Okay?” I immediately bite my lip, hating the way that came out as a question. But it was a question, because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Roman pulls out a long, letter-sized envelope from the bigger one and reaches across the desk, holding it out. When I take it from him, I turn it over in my hands and immediately recognize my name written in Lenora’s loopy scrawl. I run my thumb over the ink, wondering what thoughts were running through her head when she wrote this.
Roman continues, throwing out jargon like portfolio and investments and net worth. I listen to it all, trying to keep my expression humble when inside, I’m bursting with…what? Excitement? Bewilderment? Elation?
No. It’s none of those things. This sensation that’s filling me up, this growing bubble pressing against my bones, my skin is…unease.
I should be excited. I mean, I am excited. Who wouldn’t feel shock and awe when falling into the amount of money I’m about to? But something’s not right.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Roman continues, “Nora had a substantial amount invested in charities, particularly those supporting animal welfare. As a result, she’s set aside a portion of her estate to reflect that charity.”
I nod dismissively. This, I assumed. But what’s losing out on ten grand or so? It’s just a drop in the bucket compared to what I’ll be walking away with. Because surely she wouldn’t leave more for charity than her own flesh and blood.
Roman chuckles. “Well, a portion is putting it mildly, actually.”
Beside me, Ben’s presence suddenly feels overwhelming. The already small room is shrinking, pressing in…and in and in.
“What does…” I shake my head and clear my throat because the voice coming out of my mouth doesn’t sound like mine. “What does that mean, exactly?”
And when Roman lays it out for me—lays it all out—I lose my voice entirely.
I haven’t been to Lost Bay since I was eleven. And even though up to that point I spent two weeks a year in this town, I’m still lost the minute I step out of Roman’s office. His property sits on the outskirts, and when I walk out the door, I have two options. To the right there is nothing but woods, the trees packed so closely together that the spaces between their branches appear darker than the sky on a moonless night. To the left, a sidewalk leads past the attorney’s adjacent log cabin and up a hill where, I can only assume, it proceeds on into town.
So I point myself left, into the wind, and trudge up the path hoping it will lead me to…where? I have no idea. But I have to move. I can’t stand still. Can’t spend one more second in that acrid-smelling room with those two men, one who is an outright thief, and the other who just played executioner on my grandmother’s behalf.
Lenora.
I’m still clutching her letter in my hand, the unopened envelope now crumpled and damp beneath my sweaty grip. I stuff it into the pocket of Ben’s coat, unable to even think about opening it right now.
Because I’m hot. I’m so hot I feel like I could combust. Like I’m emitting fire from my very core and it’s billowing out, out, right out through Ben’s coat and into the air. I picture little cartoon steam clouds surrounding me as I walk, dogging my every step, and can’t even find it in me to crack a smile at the ridiculous image.
Because I’m mad. Furious. Absolutely livid.
Behind me, I hear the door bang open and, following that, my name. But I don’t acknowledge it, choosing to pretend that it’s just the wind and not the voice of the man whose coat I’m still wearing.
My legs pump faster, carrying me away from him, away from the office, away from Lenora’s ridiculous will. I’m a tornado of emotion as I push myself up and over the hill, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s the cold or my situation that’s causing the tears to well.
And believe me, I want it to be the cold. I want it to be the wind and the single digit temps that’s wetting my eyes and threatening to ruin the non-waterproof mascara that I’m determined to use up. Because I do not want to be that girl. The one who cries over something as superficial as this. But the flood that’s welling is way more than single digit temps ca
n induce, and as I crest the hill, my chest heaving, a thought hits me. Strikes so deep that I gasp out a breath as if I’ve been punched.
I am that girl. I am that woman.
This thought—the one that paints me out to be as shallow as Kendra, as shallow as the customers I wait on at Molly & Dee’s—is perhaps more depressing than the news I just received, and as I take in the view sprawling before me, there’s only one place I want to go.
I haven’t been to many small towns, but the ones I’ve driven through have always had a bar near the edge. Like people either need the liquid courage to enter or a drink in celebration knowing they’re about to leave.
And thank you Lord-God-Almighty-in-heaven-above, Lost Bay is no different.
The tiny building stands alone, set one lot over from a small service station and across the street from what looks to be a mom and pop outfitters shop that also sells auto parts and mattresses. It’s longer than it is wide, the stacked logs worn and silvered with age. A neon sign above the door beckons in the afternoon’s waning light, flashing Jasper’s Tavern in a deep electric blue.
I don’t even pause in my stride as I veer across the gravel parking lot, my eyes set on the weathered red door. Flinging it open, I’m met with the stale stench of beer and, strangely enough, something that smells incredibly sweet, like a pastry that’s just come from the oven. It’s a strange combination, and I wrinkle my nose, unable to decide whether it’s atrocious or agreeable. But as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I realize I don’t care, because I have bigger issues to deal with, and soon the bar’s strange smells fall to the background while I take in my surroundings.
I want to be alone, and it looks like that won’t be a problem here.
Aside from myself, there are only two other people in the joint. And judging by the looks of it, they both work here.
The man behind the bar is tall and lean and, if I had to guess, looks to be somewhere in his late twenties. His appearance is crisp and neat, with short dark hair parted neatly to the side and a checkered shirt collar poking out of his crew neck sweater. Perched on the bridge of his nose are a pair of black frame specs and, given the combo, the guy looks like he just walked straight off the set of a 1950s sitcom. Opposite him and perched on a barstool, a redhead with long frizzy hair is scooping a heaping spoonful of something from inside a pink to-go box with one hand and smacking the bar with her other.